Ten Days in October
by holadios
Summary: House is diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. Wilson and Cameron know that his time left with them is limited, but when he asks them to shorten the time even further with a lethal dose of morphine, will either of them be able to overcome their fear of death?
1. Watching

**Disclaimer:** I do not own anything related to House, M.D.

**Author's Note:** This is one of two author's notes that will appear in this story - one at the beginning and one at the very end. After nearly two months of work, I'm finally ready to post this story. I thought about waiting until October, but I decided that posting for ten days in a row in May would have to be good enough. You can expect daily updates, to mimic the ten days of real time in the story.

You should know that the majority of this piece was written before House's Head/Wilson's Heart (still crying over those episodes, by the way), so the House/Wilson friendship is not on the rocks. This story can be set whenever you please, probably sometime after the fourth season, though the characters in my head are probably from season three (following the episode of "Informed Consent"). This piece will alternate by chapter between Wilson and Cameron, first person point of view.

Reviews are always appreciated. I love reading what you have to say. Since this piece is complete, I probably won't change it according to your ideas, unless you point out something really, drastically wrong that absolutely must be corrected. I still love hearing predictions though. Then I can gloat over already knowing what happens. (In a nice way, of course.)

Finally, there are two people that I absolutely must thank. First, **Everybodylies17**, my wonderful beta reader. Thank you for all your hard work and dedication to this story. Your work is very much appreciated. Second, **Iamokota**, my personal cheerleading section. Thank you for your inspiration and constant kind words that kept me going. You both rock!

And without further ado...**Ten Days in October**.

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**October 22. "Watching"**

Have you ever watched someone die? I have. I have watched many people die. I have told people that they were going to die, and I have sat with them and waited for them to die. I have watched people die. I have sat by their bed sides, and held their hands, and watched them wither away to nothing. I have experienced death on more fingers than I can count on ten hands. Death is nothing new to me. Dying is nothing new to me.

What is new is that it's not someone I've just met. It's not someone I've only known for the past two months lying on that hospital bed becoming more emaciated by the day. It is someone I've diagnosed, but it's not someone whom I've met just because they were diagnosed with cancer. It's not a stranger. It's someone I know well – very well, actually.

It's my best friend.

I diagnosed my best friend with pancreatic cancer and it was one of the worst experiences of my life. It's not even just the fact that he's my best friend – it's that a pancreatic cancer diagnosis isn't really a diagnosis at all. There's no real prognosis for pancreatic cancer – the prognosis is death, and the diagnosis is a death sentence.

That was three weeks ago. Already I can feel him slipping further and further away from me. He's here, in this hospital, the only one that would ever hire him, lying so weak and pale on a lumpy hospital bed. It's unreal to believe that someone so sarcastic and full of life could be reduced to essentially nothing. I feel like I'm walking in someone else's life, and I wish that this could be some horrible nightmare that I'll eventually wake up from. Every day that goes by, I ask myself why it had to be him.

Why him, why my best friend? It's not even just that he's my best friend. I mean, that's bad enough, but I'm not just some oncologist with some best friend that I've diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. I've diagnosed a world famous diagnostician, for crying out loud! Forget me, what about the rest of the world? What are they supposed to do without him?

I torture myself over these questions daily now. Sometimes I ask myself, and sometimes I ask whatever higher being happens to be out there. I guess it's sort of like deflection, you know, to think that I'm not the only one losing someone, even if I'm sharing the experience only with the vague population of the rest of the world. I don't want to play the pity card; I don't want to be the emotional best friend, unable to pull myself through life because my best friend is dying. I don't want to die with him, even though part of me knows that I've got to face death at some point. It's just – I didn't go into this profession to make death comfortable for people. I went into this profession to save people from death. And that I can't even save my own best friend…well, that kills me.

Just looking at him kills me. His cane, so long out of use now, hangs lifelessly over the side of a chair. I think we all know that the chances he'll ever have to use that cane again are slim, but we can't bring ourselves to remove it from his room. It's like a symbol, this chance, that he'll be able to use it again. It's our beacon of hope, even if it's just a pathetic piece of polished wood. I catch him staring at it on occasion, and I know that he's wondering the same thing. I see the deadened look flicker in his eyes, and I know that he's trying to gather his resolve, to mentally make himself get better, but the next second, I see only defeat. I know he feels it too.

I enter his room now. It's very late, but I just finished with my last patient…my second to last patient, actually. For he is always my last patient – the last one I see at night, and the first one I see in the morning. I've only been back to my apartment twice in the past week. I often fall asleep in the chair beside his bed, my head slumping uncomfortably down to my neck, but I don't mind.

The moonlight throws his face into sharp relief. Bathed in the moon's pale blue glow, he looks like a ghost, with his colorless face and his deep sunken eyes. He's sitting up in his bed tonight, which is a first. He's also awake, which is a surprise, given the late hour, but I'm not complaining. I smile at him as I enter the room and drop my bag onto the floor beside what we have long since designated as my chair.

"How are you?" I ask.

He turns his gaunt face to me and blinks once, twice, three times. "The food sucks," he says simply. His voice was a bit feebler than I would have liked, but I still caught some of his old personality shining through.

I feel my face break into a weak smile. "I'll see if I can bring you some coffee tomorrow…and maybe some real food if your stomach can handle it after the chemo."

He rolls his eyes. "Screw the chemo, just give me the damn food!"

I laugh, a real laugh this time, not a fake, forced one that has become my custom. It's not even all that funny what he said, but his forceful tone and demeanor shock me so much, I cannot help but laugh.

He leans back against the pillows and stares up at the ceiling. I check my watch; it's nearing eleven. I can feel him slipping away from me now, a combination of drugs and tiredness overcoming him, sleep calling to him. He closes his eyes and breathes in deeply. I listen to his breathing and the steady beep of the machines around him. He looks so peaceful when he's lying there sleeping. The pain he feels when he's awake seems to leave him in his sleeping moments, and I think that for once, he actually might be happy.

How long I sit there watching him, I do know not, but soon I feel my head beginning to drop down onto my chest. Resigned to the uncomfortable position, I shift around in my chair, trying to avoid the inevitable neck pain of tomorrow. I don't really mind though. Every piece of time is precious, and I will take as much as I can get with him. Every second counts now. I'm not going to pass any of them by.


	2. Asking

**Disclaimer:** I do not own anything related to House, M.D.

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**October 23. "Asking"**

They say that time heals all wounds. I used to believe in those kinds of things, but now I'm not so sure. I don't know if it's because there hasn't been enough time; I don't know if it's because my wounds are too deep to be healed; I don't know if my wounds were reopened after first being healed or if they were never healed in the first place. I don't know. I just don't know.

I've started to think a lot more about time recently. Time is a curious thing that never seems to work in my favor. There's just never enough time for anything. I always seem to run out of it. Trying to hold on to time is just futile. Time runs out; that's a fact of life. Minutes expire into hours; every twenty four hours, a new day is dawning. Our world is divided into notions and figments of time for our convenience. We perceive our world through these divisions of the continuum that is time.

One never thinks about time unless they have to, and I have to. When you know your time is limited, you act as though every moment, every thought could be your last. When you know someone else's time is limited, it changes you. You think about every word you say to them and how it would seem if that was the last word they ever heard you say. You think about the way that your voice sounds, and what emotions you're portraying. You don't want them to die thinking something negative about you because those thoughts will haunt you forever. Believe me, I know.

I know because this isn't my first time with cancer. I don't know what it is with my choices in men, but it seems as though cancer always finds them. It took my husband from me after only six months of marriage. That changed me. I thought that was the worst experience of my life, but then I experienced it again – I am experiencing it again – and relieving the past while you're trying to survive and navigate the future is damn near impossible.

Sometimes I wonder if I've been unnecessarily wronged by the world. I guess I should consider myself lucky in some sense – I'm not the one dying of cancer. But it's almost worse to be the other person, I think. It's almost worse to be on the other side. And to know what I know and to see what I see every day makes the experience all the more terrifying. The medical knowledge behind the cancer only makes it worse. It sucks all the emotion and hope from the experience because you know full well there is no hope. I'd like to believe that hope still exists, but my analytical mind no longer allows me to live in this fantasy.

And then there's him. Every time I see him, I don't know if I should be sorry or supportive. I don't know if I should pity him or if I should pretend to be strong. Some people would say that you could be both, but that's not how this works. That's not how House works. It's hard to look at him now, to see the damage the cancer has done. It's hard to look at him and know there's no hope. It's slowly killing me.

And yet, I find myself staring at him as he falls asleep tonight. I don't know where Wilson is; usually Wilson stays with him, but he's not here tonight. I'm here because I don't want him to fall asleep alone. He sees me enter the room and he knows I am here. I am hesitant at first, unsure of how close I can come to him, unsure of what mood or condition I might find him in, but he is silent. He does not object. He does not object as I walk slowly to the bed and take Wilson's usual seat next to him.

We remain in silence for awhile, each too consumed in our own thoughts to take in anything else about the world around us. I find myself looking at the visible bones in his neck and shoulders. It scares me to see how thin he has become. It's hard to remember the person that used to be more than just this skeleton. It's hard to remember the past when the bleak future is staring you in the face. I'm a doctor; I know how these things work. I know that there isn't much time left.

He startles me by breaking the silence and speaking. "I wanted to die today."

His words startle me. "What?" I ask, unsure I have heard him correctly.

He shifts so that he is facing me. "I wanted to die today," he repeats slowly.

I feel my eyes widen and I know that I'm staring at him. He has stunned me into silence. He continues, "I was just wondering…if there was a point to all of this…this pain, this suffering…we all know I'm just going to die in the end."

It hurts me to hear him talking like this. I want him to keep talking because I want to know what he's thinking, but I slowly feel the words seep inside of me, killing me from the inside out. I want him to keep talking because I like listening to his voice and hearing him speak because it reminds me that there's still a person inside of him somewhere. I know that he's pessimistic and that he's generally not a happy person. He doesn't welcome pain. He accepts pain, and he seems comfortable around death, but he doesn't welcome it. He sees it as an escape.

"Will you – will you do something for me?" he asks.

I shift my gaze and look directly into his eyes. His eyes are completely serious and sincere. I nod and ask, "What, House?"

"Will you…take it away?"

Despite myself, I feel my eyes fill with tears. I have never heard him ask anything like this of anyone before. It's hard to imagine the same callous man I used to work with is the same person as the weak, dying man lying next to me. I don't know what to say. I don't know what he means. I don't know how to take it away, or even what _it_ is…

"I don't understand -"

When I meet his gaze again, I can see the resolute conviction reflected in his blue eyes. He looks directly at me and asks, "Will you kill me?"


	3. Unleashing

**Disclaimer:** I do not own anything related to House, M.D.

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**October 24. "Unleashing"**

I find myself awake again in the middle of the night. This seems to be the norm for me now. Despite the uncomfortable and rather awkward feeling of sleeping in a chair, I only seem to be able to sleep when I am in his room. My own bed, soft and comfortable, does not provide me any relief. Instead of sleeping, I find myself tossing and turning every night that I'm away from him.

There's a feeling of never ending anxiety when I'm away from him. I lie here in bed and I start thinking about him and I just can't stop. I can't stand the thought of him lying in that hospital bed under the thin sheets staring at the dark and blank ceiling. How depressing is that? I, at least, can spend my uncomfortable moments somewhere warm. He cannot have even that small luxury.

It's not even just the fact that I can't sleep; it's the fact that I can't stay asleep. When I do manage more than ten minutes, I encounter only strange dreams. I dream about stupid things; I dream about ridiculous, irrelevant things. But somehow those stupid and irrelevant things always lead back to one thing – to him, to House. It's like my mind just can't leave him alone. It feels guilty – I feel guilty.

I feel guilty. I feel like I should be there, if something – anything – were to happen. God forbid something happens, though. If not God, then I – _I_ _forbid you to die, House_, I think mentally every time I leave him. I'll protect him. I am consumed by this fear of him dying. It just never leaves me alone.

I'm scared to fall asleep at night because I'm afraid that I'll wake up to find out that he's dead. I'm scared to leave his room for more than five minutes when I'm at the hospital because I'm afraid that I'll come back and he will no longer be breathing. I can't be sure he's still alive unless I'm sitting there with him, every second of every minute of every hour, watching his chest slowly rise and fall and listening to him exhale. When I'm with him, I can pull out my stethoscope and press it to his chest and listen to his heart beating. When I'm with him, I can constantly check for indications that he's still with me. When I'm away from him, I can only live in fear that he has died without me.

I'm too much of a man to tell him that I love him, but that doesn't mean I can't admit it to myself. He'd just laugh at me anyway, if I tried to tell him. That's one thing he doesn't understand, House. He doesn't understand love. Or – maybe he understands it, but he doesn't accept it. I think he'd prefer to live without it, because he's afraid that he could lose it. Call me naïve, but I still believe in love. And I do love him, not in any romantic sense of the world, but in a familial, brotherly sense. He is my brother; he is my best friend.

I feel tears welling in my eyes. This is what happens; this is what happens in the dark of the night, in the safety of my own bedroom. This is what happens when I break down; this is what happens when everything that I've been hiding from everyone finally breaks out from within me. This is what I've been reduced to – sobbing quietly in my bedroom, afraid to make a sound, lest I disturb the silence around me.

It's just – I can't – I don't _want_ to live without him. I can't imagine what my day is going to be like when he's no longer there to experience it – to live it – with me. I can't see myself going to work and expecting him not to be there. I can't envision a world in which I don't have rocks thrown at my window, or in which I can eat all of my fries. I can't conceive this world without him. I can't live in it. I can't do it; I just can't!

The tears come quickly now as I feel my thoughts cascading out of me. I don't want to work without him. I don't want to eat lunch without him. I don't want to diagnose patients without him. I don't want to see his team members without him. All the little things he does – those things he does to annoy me or to provoke me – I don't want to live without them. It's hard to imagine how one could ever find his personality endearing, but I do. I don't know what I'm going to do; I just don't know.

It seems like there's no one I can reach out to. Everyone just expects me to be able to handle this, it feels like. I've been the strong one for so long now. I was the one to diagnose him. I was the one to answer the questions, to confirm the fears of all the people around me. I was the one to tell his team. I was the one to comfort Cameron when she cried…all of this. Through all of this, I was the strong one. I was the one everyone came to; I still am. I can't let them see me as I am; if I fall apart, there is no hope for anyone else.

It's this impossible burden; they feel as though I can handle it because I've experienced it before. But we're all doctors; we're all human. We all have emotions. And we all, in some way or another, love him. We're all going to lose him and we all have to face it. I don't understand why I have to be the one to take them through it. Can't they see I'm not strong enough?

I cry until I have no tears left to cry. I finally let all the bottled up emotions out, and when I'm done, I'm exhausted. I am physically and emotionally drained. I roll over onto my other side and stare out the window at the stars. I can feel myself finally succumbing to sleep. I can no longer think of anything, can no longer worry or feel guilty or be scared. I'm just too tired. My last thought before the darkness takes me is that I love him.


	4. Believing

**Disclaimer:** I do not own anything related to House, M.D.

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**October 25. "Believing"**

I have barely moved in two days. I sit on my bed, my legs crossed beneath me, a blanket draped over my shoulders. I have not gone back to work. I have barely eaten anything, unable to muster enough energy to walk into the kitchen and grab even an apple. I don't remember calling in sick to work, but I guess it doesn't matter that much. I can't think straight anymore.

I just can't handle this anymore. I don't want to think about House or anyone, but I don't really have a choice. I'm still in shock. I can't believe that he would ask something so horrible of me; does he truly believe that I could do that to him? I didn't answer him when he asked; I had no idea what I would have said to him anyway. My gut is telling me no, but I just couldn't say anything then.

I can't do it; I just can't! Kill him – that's impossible, completely out of the question. I'm a doctor. I save people. I do not help people die; I stop people from dying…or I try to, anyway. I'm not going to let him throw his life away like this. I don't care how hopeless he feels; there's no way that I can let him to do this to himself. I am not going to kill him. I refuse to do it. I will never do it. I don't care how much convincing it takes. He is not going to die on me.

I feel suddenly invigorated by this thought. Suddenly, there is movement. Suddenly, there is a reason to get out of my bed and do something. My resolve is set. I swing my legs over the side of the bed. It's just after ten o'clock and the moonlight illuminates the floor as I run to the bathroom. I quickly strip off my clothing and step into the shower. I wash myself as quickly as possible, washing away all the grime that has built up over the past two days. I am waking up my mind; I am clearing my head. I am going to the hospital now and telling him exactly what I think and nothing is going to stop me.

I park my car in the hospital parking lot half an hour later. My hair is damp around my shoulders; I did not take the time to blow dry it. I enter the hospital through the ER because that's the nearest entrance that's open. I flash my ID at the desk and they just nod. I dash up to his room and knock on the open door to announce my presence.

He turns to face me and I see his eyes widen ever so slightly when he sees that it's me. Maybe he was expecting Wilson, or maybe he's just pleased to see that I've returned after my absence. He nods to me and I take that as an invitation to enter. I walk to the foot of the bed and look him directly in the eye.

"The answer is no."

He blinks twice before letting out a low laugh. "Good god!" he exclaims. "It took you long enough to realize this – sex and work would have been too complicated anyway."

"House!" I let out a slow, even breath. "I'm serious."

"So am I."

I close my eyes, let out another breath, and then open them. "I'm sorry. I can't do it."

He clicks his tongue. "You've done it before." I catch the bitterness in his voice. He's disappointed in me.

"That's not the same thing!" I insist, but he cuts me off.

"It is the same thing. Just take the syringe, fill it, and plunge it. There's nothing hard about it."

"No!" I feel tears welling in my eyes. Doesn't he know how much it hurts me to hear him talk like this? Doesn't he know how painful it is to look at him this way? Doesn't he know how much I don't want him to die?

Doesn't he know how much I love him?

It feels so hopeless, so damn hopeless. I don't know what to do. I can't bear this anymore. I want to run from the room, but at the same time, I just can't tear myself away.

"House," I whisper. "House, please. Don't talk like that. Please don't. I know it's hard now, but there is – there is still hope…"

"You wouldn't even let a dog suffer this much." He laughs at me, a cold, bitter laugh. "I live in pain, nonstop pain. I can't move. I'm never going to get out of this bed. I have to pee in a cold bed pan that some nurse has to remove for me. My life has been reduced to nothing!" He's shouting now, and I feel the tears flowing even faster down my face. "I've lost almost all of my dignity. Can't you at least spare me what little of it I have left and just let me die?"

The tears fall freely now and I sink to the ground in despair. The sobs rack my body, and I just can't stop. He's so right; he's so, so right. My useless words of comfort seem even more pathetic than before. I just don't know what to do. I don't want him to suffer. I can't allow him to suffer. I love him too much to let him suffer this way. But what do I do? I don't know what to do! I don't want to do it, but I don't know what choice I have. He wants it, he wants it so badly, and I just don't know what else I can do.

"Go to the cabinet."

His voice shocks me. It's calm, it's collected; it's almost cold. He's rational and reasonable, and it's everything that I'm not right now. I am so lost, so confused. This is the only thing that makes sense. This direction, this command – _go to the cabinet_. This is something I can do. I can do little else, but this is something that I can do.

I do it.

"Take the syringe."

The syringes are in a box. I take one and feel its cool weight in my hand…I feel the smooth body with my fingertips…

"Fill it with morphine."

There's an extra sack of morphine on the counter for the next nurse to use when House's current supply runs out. I walk blindly to it…I fumble with the bag. It's smooth and slippery; it slips between my fingers. I finally manage to open it and I fill the syringe. I turn around to look at him.

His sleeve is already pulled up. He points with his left hand to his right arm. He doesn't have to say anything. I know what he wants me to do. I walk slowly over to him, tears falling so thickly, they blind me. My vision is so obscured, I can hardly see what I'm doing. I'm shaking so much, I can barely hold the syringe steady. I can't find the vein. My hands are shaking so much that they can't find the vein. I shake my head and try to steady myself.

"Focus, Cameron," he intones.

There. Found it.

I take a shaky breath and try to compose myself, but I just can't. I can't even conceive what I'm doing right now; I just have to do it. I can usually justify my actions to myself, but I don't know why I'm doing this. I feel myself pull back the syringe, ready to push it, I'm going to push it, and then -

"Cameron!" someone shouts. "What the hell are you doing?"


	5. Discovering

**Disclaimer:** I do not own anything related to House, M.D.

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**October 26. "Discovering"**

This is not happening. I am not seeing this; there is no way. My mind is playing tricks on me. It is quite late, after all, the next day technically, though I have not gone to sleep yet. I don't want to accept what my eyes are seeing. It's just not real. This cannot be real. I see her see me, and I see the look of pure terror on her face, and I know, I just _know,_ that she's going to run.

She does. I do not say anything to her as she passes by me; already her tears have begun to fall. I have nothing to say to her right now. My mind is working overtime, trying to put the entire story together, trying to conceive how, exactly, I could have walked into a room with my best friend, his coworker, and a syringe filled with enough morphine to kill. Could she have done it on purpose? Could she have been forced? Did he know?

Did he ask her to?

I shake my head, trying to clear that thought from my mind, but for some reason, it clings. Because deep down I know that he is not above begging, and that he may not be above death. He may be above plain old suicide, but he would not be above asking someone else to do it for him. He may even have taken pleasure in having someone carry out his last wish, his dying wish…_literally_.

The thought makes me sick.

I cross over to his bed, my eyes locked on his, my face livid. My jaw is set, and I can feel my top teeth grinding into my lower jaw. My arms are crossed, folded over my chest. I can't even sigh in exasperation anymore, because what I just witnessed makes exasperation the understatement of the year. I am furious. I am furious with myself for letting him stay alone. I am furious with Cameron for trying to kill him. And I am furious with House for wanting to die. However irrational that seems, I am furious with him above all. How can he just be giving up like this, after all he's been through? I know that it seems bleak, but for God's sake, isn't he at least going to try and fight anymore? I shake my head wearily. This is just too much for me to handle.

He still hasn't said anything. I sink down into my usual chair beside his bed, my head in my hands. After a few moments, the silence becomes too much to bear, and I ask the question that's first on my mind, the one I have to know the answer to, and yet the one I'm terrified to ask.

"Why?"

It's barely more than a whisper, but I know he hears me. He is awake and I know he is looking at me, staring at me, contemplating me.

"I wanted to."

I jerk my head up at these words. "You wanted to what, House?" I spit. "You wanted to die? You wanted to give up on me?"

"This isn't about you," he says tiredly.

"Like hell it isn't!" I retort. "I've been with you from the beginning. I've been prescribing treatments and staying here every night and watching you as you get progressively worse!" I'm on my feet now, unable to control my rage while sitting down. "I've been staying here every night, always pulling for you, _always,_ and this is how you thank me? By trying to off yourself on the one night I'm not with you? What the hell is wrong with you?"

"You're not mad I'm trying to 'off myself'," he answers coldly. "You would do the same thing if you were me. You're just mad that I didn't tell you first, didn't consult you. You're mad that I didn't ask you to do it. You're just mad that I asked Cameron instead of you."

"Why did you ask Cameron?" I shout back. "How could you do that to her? Do you have any idea, any idea at all, House, about what you're doing to her? Oh my god…" Unwillingly, absurdly, I begin to laugh. "You have no idea, do you?"

"No idea about what?" he snaps.

"_She's in love with you!_" I exclaim. "She's _been_ in love with you for awhile now, can't you see it? Why are you asking her to kill you? Do you have any idea how much you've hurt her? No, of course not!" I answer myself, shaking my head at him. "No, you're having too much fun with your game. You're manipulating her for your own damn – oh my God, you did know!" He smirks. I begin pacing, my overworked and overtired mind connecting the pieces slowly. And then it clicks and I freeze, disgusted.

"You know, _you knew_, she was in love with you and you asked her to kill you to see if she would! What kind of sick game is this, House?" _My God…_I could just picture him, externally the image of pathetic that she needed to see, but inside smirking as she followed his stronger will and command. He had manipulated her into almost killing him, and to him, it had just been some kind of game. Most of me was completely furious at how horribly he had abused her, but another part of me, a smaller part that I'd rather did not feel this way at the moment, was secretly relieved that it had all been a game, that he hadn't _actually_ wanted to die. This horrible part of me was glad that House cared more about abusing a woman that loved him than wanting to die. This part of me was relieved that he wasn't suicidal. I wanted to cut this part out of me and stomp on it. I did not want to feel relief when I felt anger. It only made me feel guilty.

"I'm leaving," I say through gritted teeth. "I'll see you later." He doesn't say anything, but instead watches me in silence as I leave room. I'm about to close the door behind me when he speaks.

"You're wrong about one thing," I hear him mutter. "I actually want to die."


	6. Apologizing

**Disclaimer:** I do not own anything related to House, M.D.

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**October 27. "Apologizing"**

I hear knocking before I register that anyone is there. I do not move, unable to feel my legs after lying on my side for so long. I do not hear any words following the knocking, and I think for a moment that the source of the knocking has left, but then I hear it right next to the bed.

"Cameron?" a gentle voice asks.

I do not want anyone to see me like this, but I am unable to hide myself now. My hair is a tangled mess around my shoulders. My eyes are dry and red from crying. My entire body feels stiff from lying in the same position for hours. My face feels like a mask, with now-dried tears caked onto my skin. I have not brushed my teeth in two days. The only thing I can do is close my eyes and pretend to be asleep and hope that the source goes away soon.

I feel a hand on my shoulder. "Cameron…" someone whispers. I recognize the voice. I do not want to pretend to be asleep any longer. I open my eyes and look up at him.

"Hi," I say softly. I am struck by how raspy my voice sounds. I drag myself into a sitting position and rub the sleep out of my eyes, trying to clear my mind. "What time is it?" I rasp.

"Almost four," he answers. From the sunlight still streaming in through my window, I know that he means in the afternoon. "How long have you been asleep?" I shrug. How am I supposed to know? I'm not even sure what day it is. I don't know what the last thing I remember even is. It might be running from the hospital room. It might be emptying my stomach contents into the toilet. It might be crying on my bed. It might be crying myself to sleep.

"Have you eaten anything?"

I shake my head no. My stomach feels weak and though it is empty, I don't know if I could keep anything down. My head feels heavy when I try to stand, and I grab the bedpost for support. My legs are shaking beneath me. I take a deep breath and exhale slowly.

"What are you doing here?" I ask him.

"I need to talk to you," he answers. I nod. I figured as much. Somehow I knew this conversation would come from the moment I saw him see me with the syringe in my hand.

"Do you want to order take out?" he asks tentatively. "You look like you haven't eaten in days."

It's not appetizing, but my brain tells me I should eat anyway. I nod blindly. "I'm…going to take a shower, clean up a bit. You can order. I'll be out soon."

He just nods and then leaves my room. I run to my bathroom and lock the door behind me. I catch my reflection in the mirror when I turn around. A pale face with deadened eyes stares back at me. It's hard to believe this person is me.

I feel slightly better after a shower. My hair doesn't feel as filthy and I am pleasantly warm from the hot water. I blow dry my hair quickly, but leave it loose around my shoulders. I throw on a sweatshirt and a pair of sweatpants and pad into the kitchen. He's already waiting for me there, cartons of Chinese food on my kitchen counter. He offers me one of them and a pair of chopsticks. I accept, suddenly ravenous, and we sit down at the table together.

Despite him wanting to talk to me, he is silent during our meal. I can see the tired, deadened look in his eyes too, and I wonder when the last time he slept was. I wonder how much he has been changed these past weeks. The person I see eating across from me is not the same person I used to know. Everything has changed now; nothing is the same for me, or for anybody.

I want to ask him how he does it, how he manages to go on living. It's his best friend who's dying, and yet he still manages to look like he hasn't completely stopped giving a damn about the world. He sees death every day. Maybe that's it; maybe he's seen so many people die of cancer, he's finally become immune.

We finish eating in silence, and I throw the cartons away in the trash. It isn't until after I've washed my hands and made myself some tea (he declined) that he decides that he's ready to talk to me.

We sit down onto my couch together, him staring at the embroidered pattern, and I at the mug of raspberry tea I hold in my hands. I look up when I hear his voice.

"I talked to House."

I swallow hard. Even though I knew this was coming, I'm still not sure how I feel talking about it. Something inside me tells me I need to talk about what happened, but another part of me insists that I should never speak of it again; perhaps if I never mention it, the memory will be erased.

"What did he say?" I ask quietly.

He sighs and shakes his head. "He said that he wants to die."

I feel my heart beat quicken. "What – what did you say?" I ask, my voice quavering.

"I didn't say anything," he responds. "I don't know what to say to him." He puts his hand on my shoulder in a comforting way. "You know I have to ask you," he whispers.

I nod. I know what he wants to know; he wants to know if I would have injected the syringe, if he hadn't walked through the door. The truth is, I would have. I don't know why, when I look back on it, because I don't really know what I was thinking at the time, or if I was thinking at all. I just know that I would have done it. The thought scares me. I could have killed him. I would have killed him.

"Yes," I whisper truthfully. I feel tears fill my eyes as I say it and Wilson's grip on my shoulder tightens. "I'm sorry!" I cry. "I'm so sorry, Wilson!"

I feel him fold me into his chest and I let my tears fall freely now. I can feel him shaking as he wraps his arms around me. "I'm sorry," I whisper over and over again. I know how much I have hurt him. I should have been thinking clearer that night. I should have realized that I shouldn't have let House do this to himself, not when his best friend hadn't had the chance to say good-bye.

And I realize something else as I cry into Wilson's chest. I realize that I'm not the only one who has to suffer. I realize that I was wrong about before; Wilson does not have it all together. He is hurt just as much as I am, if not more. I don't know how much I have hurt their friendship by almost killing his best friend. _It's okay, I understand,_ he whispers to me, but I find myself wondering if he really does understand. I find myself wondering if he blames me. I find myself hoping that he can forgive me.

And I have hurt him. It was his best friend I was about to kill, and he knows now that he was just a few seconds away from losing his best friend forever. I don't know how he can hold me in his arms and tell me that it's okay when I know that I've caused him so much pain. I don't feel like I deserve to have his comfort and his compassion, yet I find myself unable to draw away. I need – I crave – someone who can understand what I did. I need someone to tell me that it's okay.

And I realize that he needs the same thing. He needs someone to comfort him. He needs someone who can understand why he's upset, and he needs someone to offer him some space for compassion. I realize now, as I feel his arms trembling around my body, that I was wrong; I was so, so wrong. He's not immune to death. He just hides it well. He needs someone to tell him that it's okay to cry.

I bury my head in his chest as I feel his teardrops hit the back of my neck.


	7. Denying

**Disclaimer: **I do not own anything related to House, M.D.

* * *

**October 28. "Denying"**

I walk into his room in the late afternoon. This is earlier than the time I usually visit him, but I have no more patients to see today and I don't want to sit in my office alone with only paperwork as my silent companion. I have not been back to his room since I was there so early in the morning two days ago, and as much as I am disgusted by what he did to Cameron, I feel myself drawn back to his room. As much as I don't want to care, I find myself almost forced to.

Being at Cameron's apartment yesterday, I realized something important: I don't have to do this alone. I'm not the only one who's scared, and I'm not the only one who's hurt. His power of manipulation scares even me, and I know now that he could push her over the edge if he wanted to – and I know now that he wanted to. I know that he wants to die.

It worries me when I walk into his room to find him lying on the bed with his eyes closed. I feel my heart stop. As irrational and childish as it may be, I am unable to pull myself away from the horrible fact that he might be dead. I feel myself beginning to panic. I cannot see his chest moving up and down from where I am standing. I cannot hear him breathing. I cannot tell if his heart is beating.

He may be dead, for all I know.

I cross to his bedside in three quick strides. Even closer to him now, I still can't find any movement, any sign of life. Swallowing hard, I curse the fact there are no machines hooked up to him now and I'm forced to check his pulse for myself. I had left my stethoscope in my office, and oddly enough, in this moment, I feel myself longing for it. For a moment, the thought of physical connection scares me. It's two fingers, I tell myself, two fingers on his neck. My two fingers tremble slightly as I bring them closer to him. I swallow hard again and press them against his neck, my eyes squeezed tightly shut as I find myself hoping, praying blindly, that I'll find something.

Thump. Thump.

I exhale loudly and my heartbeat returns to normal. He's alive. He hasn't managed to off himself or convince one of the nurses to do the dirty work for him since I left. I'll be able to talk to him again; I'll be able to hear his voice again. Relief floods through me and I find myself smiling in spite of myself.

"I'm not dead, you know."

He voice startles me, but I quickly recover. "I know," I answer him simply. My curiosity satisfied, I step back a bit from his bed. He's watching my every move with his hollow eyes, so piercing, and yet so empty. I feel suddenly uncomfortable around him.

"Why are you here?" he asks.

"I want to talk to you."

He rolls his eyes. "Come to have a heart to heart?"

I look at him seriously. "This is important," I tell him. I ease myself into the chair beside his bed and lean my head against the back. I look up at him. He has not said anything, which I take to be a good sign – at least he hasn't completely disengaged yet. I clear my throat. For all that's on my mind, it's impossible to string my thoughts together.

I can't express myself in words. These emotions that I'm feeling – this painful mixture of grief, anger, guilt, and fear – it doesn't have a name and I can't describe it to him. I seem to have lost my ability to connect with my best friend. I can't tell which one of us has changed more – he's the one who's dying, but he's taking a part of me with him. I feel myself dying slowly along with him.

Something must have shown on my face. "I'm not dead yet," he says calmly.

I sigh. "Not for lack of trying."

"Trying doesn't count for anything. I'm still here, aren't I? You're acting like I'm already dead."

"You are!" I exclaim, and I immediately clap a hand over my mouth. His eyebrows rise at my outburst, but otherwise, he doesn't say anything. I stare at him in horror. I cannot believe I just said that. I wasn't intending to at all – my emotions just slipped out. This never-ending frustration, this sick feeling of impending doom…it was never going away. To me, it was as if he were already dead. Maybe it's my way of preparing myself for the inevitable. I've never really been one to accept the inevitable.

"He finally admits it," he says softly. His tone is somber, but I catch the smallest hint of pride. He lifts his sunken eyes to meet mine. "You know that there's no hope."

"House…"

There's a certain strange finality about saying words aloud. If you can keep words locked in your mind forever, then whatever the words mean is never actually true. Until you admit your feelings to someone else, you can live peacefully in the fantasy that those feelings are actually true. I could believe that House would survive if I never admitted aloud I thought there was a chance he wouldn't. As long as I believe there's a chance, there is a chance.

That's how my mind works, anyway. His mind has already prepared its body for the inevitable; it has already accepted that verdict of impending doom. His mind knows its body's days are numbered. He – House – he knows. I bet he even counts them down.

"Face it," he says, his tone sharper this time. "I'm going to die. You're going to die. We're all going to die someday. I just happen to be dying sooner rather than later."

His words tear through me. As much as I'd like to believe what he's saying isn't true, there's this air of finality and self confidence and certainty about what he's saying that prevents me from denying it. When he states it so matter-of-factly, who's to say he isn't right?

I can. In my mind, anyway. Out loud, I will say nothing.

"I want to die sooner, rather than later," he tells me. "I don't want to live like this anymore. Why are we dragging this on when we both know what's really going to happen?"

"House," I whisper fiercely. "Don't talk like that."

"You know I'm right--"

"Stop it!"

"Come on, just say it! Admit to yourself that this is the end. You haven't saved every patient who's walked through your door. I guess I'm just one of those patients you couldn't save. Why can't you just accept that?"

"SHUT UP!" I yell as I leap to my feet. "Shut up, House, just shut the hell up!"

I have never cried in front of him before and I don't really want to start now, but I can hardly blink back the tears anymore. I don't remember feeling them in my eyes, but suddenly I blink and I feel one slip down my cheek. I immediately turn away from him, not wanting him to see how much he's upset me, but the damage is done. He does shut up as I asked him too, but now in the silence, I know that he's just watching me more closely. I hurriedly wipe my eyes, trying to do it as inconspicuously as possible, but he's already seen the tears. I take a deep breath and let it out slowly.

"I'm not going to give up on you," I tell him. "I just can't do it." I sit down again in the chair beside him.

"You know I've already given up on myself."

I nod. "That doesn't mean I have to."

He shakes his head ever so slightly and I see a glimpse of regret flash through his hollowed eyes. "This is what I want."

I look at him. "You want to kill yourself?"

"I want you to kill me."

I'm shaking my head before he even finishes the sentence. "H – House," I stammer. "I can't. No – I – I can't."

"I'm asking you as my friend," he says. "I don't want to die waiting for death to take me. I want to decide for myself when death gets to have me."

"Why can't you just kill yourself?" I mutter.

"Can't," he answers simply. "They took all the bad drugs away after that whole Cameron thing."

He looks back at me and I am struck by this sense of odd devotion. Here is the man I have been devoted to since we first became friends. I've been with him despite his personality, despite his leg, despite the fact he steals my money and eats my lunch, despite everything. Despite even the cancer, the diagnosis. Maybe even despite death.

Death. It has a rather odd finality to it.


	8. Regretting

**Disclaimer:** I do not own anything related to House, M.D.

* * *

**October 29. "Regretting"**

It's a painful feeling, to know that you can't go back in time. I know it seems childish to wish that I could defy the boundaries of time, but I seem to be thinking about a lot of these childish wonders lately. I guess that's what happens when I have nothing better to do than to sit on my bed and ponder my life. I don't really know what to make of anything anymore, so I resort to the questions that simply have no answer, the dreams that can never be realized.

I've come to the conclusion that if I could go back in time, I would have high-tailed it out of that room as soon as he started talking about death. I would have given up on diplomacy and taken drastic action: disengagement, detachment. I would have done whatever it took to avoid being caught with the syringe in my hand. I would never have hurt Wilson so badly. Then I wouldn't have to live with the guilt.

I can't stop feeling guilty. I feel guilty about Wilson, about the pained look in his eyes as I talked to him the other day. I feel guilty for assuming he was okay when I should have known he wasn't. I feel guilty for making him cry. I feel guilty for leaning on him too much when he was barely standing himself.

And then there's House. I haven't seen him in days. I feel guilty because I haven't been able to go back yet. I haven't seen him since that fateful visit last time. I just don't know if I can. I feel guilty because I know that he's dying and I'm basically running away from him, but I'm just not strong enough to deal with him anymore. Then I feel guilty for passing that burden of "dealing with him" onto Wilson. And for reducing House to be an object to be dealt with at all.

I found a photo album the other day that I hadn't seen in years. I had almost forgotten how young I had been when my first husband died. Looking at those pictures had brought back many unwilling memories, and I cried for hours just remembering them all. It appears that the world just isn't fair. Too many people die too young and in too much pain.

It's hard to imagine the physical pain that he went through as he was dying. I experienced enough of his emotional pain to have at least some idea of what that must have felt like, but I can't say that I've ever been dying of cancer. And I don't know that emotional pain of dying. I can understand loss and I can understand fear, but I can't understand acceptance and resignation. I have accepted the fact he would die and resigned myself to life without him, but I have not accepted, nor have I resigned myself to, death itself.

He died in pain, I know he did. He went out fighting too, with doctors shocking his heart for over half an hour, pumping drugs into his bloodstream all the way. I remember watching in tearful fear, hands covering my mouth and salty tears stinging my eyes as he died before me. Perhaps by that point he was simply begging to be let go, already beyond that emotional pain of acceptance and resignation.

With House, it's different. He knows what pain is. He's been living in it for years now, curbing it with his dangerous Vicodin addiction. I don't think the pain is anything new to him, and even the new levels of pain that come with cancer and chemotherapy are within his range of tolerance. I'm not sure he feels much emotional pain; he's never had much connection to another human being. He does, however, have a great deal of power over others, and his ability to make people feel emotional pain is the strongest I've ever seen.

I keep asking myself why he wants to die, and the best I can come up with is that he just doesn't see the point in living. Part of me knows he's right. Part of me knows that it's time to accept the inevitable – he's going to die. It's only a matter of time. Time is something he's never cared that much about. Deadlines and due dates have never meant much to him, unless you count solving the medical mystery before the patient dies. I don't think he believes time has an end. But I know he thinks life does.

House knows his life is over. I think he's known it ever since he first received Wilson's diagnosis. He's been preparing for death his entire life; the diagnosis just gave him an approximated date. Sometimes I was surprised he bothered with the chemotherapy at all, seeing as he never cared that much for life in the first place. I'm glad he did though; it gave me a sense of hope, however false, that he could somehow beat this. I guess I never really thought he wouldn't beat it. He's never let anything stop him before.

And I think _he_ – my husband – _he _knew his life was over too. Sometimes, I fear he stuck around just for me, because he didn't think I could handle it if he died. I sometimes wonder if he felt guilty for marrying me because he knew he would force me to live a widow or else remarry. I sometimes wonder if he felt guilty for having to die. I hope he didn't. I hope he didn't live in pain for me. I don't want to be the reason someone lives in pain. It may be romantic or heroic, but these doubts just make me feel guilty. I know that I wanted him to live. And he knew that.

And so does House. I don't think he'd stay alive for me, but the reason he's not dead yet like he wants to be is because of me, because I didn't kill him. He is alive because of me. He is in pain because of me. Because of me, he's lying in pain and waiting for death to take him. Because of me, he's still waiting to be relieved him from this nightmare. Because of me, his last days of life will be pure agony. Because of me, I will feel guilty for the rest of my life.

I don't think I can live with that.


	9. Breaking

**Disclaimer:** I do not own anything related to House, M.D.

* * *

**October 30. "Breaking"**

I think time has stopped. I think that my watch battery has broken, frozen forever in that one moment when I made the most dangerous decision I've ever made. Even the clock in the exam room I'm currently sitting in seems to have frozen in time, the second hand ticking back and forth between two tick marks between two of the larger numbers. It's broken. It doesn't help my mood.

I feel broken too, broken, and so, so tired. I have tortured myself in my mind for the past two days now, torn between what I could do, what I should do, and what I ought to do. I have often wondered why people couldn't live by the seemingly simple rules spelled out to them by all the moral and ethical philosophers. Now I know why: it's not that simple. Those philosophers didn't anticipate situations like this; those people that set ethical standards have forgotten one of the most important components of ethics – the people that must abide by ethic's rules.

I have long considered myself an ethical person. I didn't cheat my way though medical school. I don't try to outsmart or trick my patients for more money. I don't steal. I don't lie. I don't break the law. I try to make the world a better place. I try to live up to those sayings on the inspirational posters I see adorning the walls of the hospital room. I try to make a difference. I try to save people. Sometimes I succeed.

Sometimes I don't.

Sometimes I'm faced with people I can't save, with diseases that neither I nor any amount of chemotherapy, radiation, or time can cure. Sometimes I have to let the patients die. Sometimes I have to admit that I'm just not good enough. Those days are the worst.

I never thought I would find myself here. I was so sure, so damn sure, that being a doctor would be easy – in terms of moral questions, anyway. I took the oath; I vowed to do no harm. Being a doctor is about saving people – a doctor makes people better. Doctors do not actively try to kill people. I knew that I could not actively try to kill someone. I thought that being a doctor would be a perfect fit for my ethical up bringing.

It would seem that one can never be too sure of anything. If I hadn't become an oncologist, I would not be here, sitting here, right now. If I hadn't met my best friend, I surely wouldn't be in this hospital, in this exam room, with this syringe in my hand and this package of morphine next to me. I would never be considering what I now have to consider. I would never have said yes to something that I don't know if I can ever bring myself to do. I would never have to guess about what I should do next. I would always know. I would always have medicine, solid, predictable, and rule-abiding medicine, by my side. Call me heroic, call me naïve, call me whatever you want, but I never thought I would be here.

I shouldn't be here. It's late. I should be at home, working, sleeping, maybe even watching TV. I should be in my office, catching up on the mounds of paperwork I have been neglecting. I should be taking a shower. I should be eating dinner. I should be writing, reading, walking, running – I should be doing anything. Anything but this.

I shouldn't be here. It's dangerous. I shouldn't have this syringe in my hand, inching my other ever closer to that package of lethal drugs. I shouldn't be in this exam room, with my mind only on one thing, one promise, one promise that I definitely should never have made. I shouldn't have to do this. I shouldn't be doing this. This is murder. This is illegal.

Damn what he wants. Maybe I can't understand what he's going through, but I do understand what it means to be alive. I do understand the difference between life and death, and it is damn near impossible for a living person to be best friends with a dead one. I do understand medicine. I understand what the tests tell me, what the scans reveal. I understand how cancer works. I understand how cancer kills. What I will never understand is why anyone would be so willing to give up their life. I've thought long and hard about this, because at one point, I thought that maybe I could understand, that maybe he was right. But I've decided that he isn't.

He can't be. He can't give up this easily. He can't give up on me this easily. I don't understand why he won't try to fight this anymore, why he can't just admit that maybe he does have a chance. Why does he have to be so convinced, so sure that he is going to be dead in a week? Why has he given up so easily? I know that it's hard, I know it must be hard, but my God, why can't he just listen to me? I'm his best friend – he is not the only one who's suffering. I may not be the one dying of cancer, but I am going to be the one that has to pick up the pieces after he's gone. I'm the one that will have to live in a world without him. I am the one that will have to be alone. I am the one that will have to accept death, something I have never been good at accepting. He's ready to die; I know he is. He's been ready to die for awhile now. I've never been ready for death. I fear death. I don't want to die.

I feel the tears coming now. I knew they would come, knew they were inevitable. I can't hold them back. There's no one here to see me cry now, it's okay to cry. I drop the syringe and grip the edge of the table, trying to steady myself. The sobs wrack my body and I shake violently, strengthening my grip on the table's edge to keep on my feet. I can't do this. I just can't do this. Grief, guilt, remorse, disgust all wash over me, a wave of emotions that I can no longer stop, that I can no longer control. I have never lost control like this before. It's been a long time since I've lost such complete control over my body that I can no longer stand. It's been a long time since I've let myself be vulnerable enough to be hurt this badly. It's been a long time since I've forced myself to make any kind of difficult decision. It's been a long time.

It seems like a long time ago that I diagnosed him, his icy blue eyes boring into mine. He was staring at me, a blank expression, a controlled expression, an emotionless expression. I don't think I ever saw him cry. Everyone else cried around him. He took it calmly, as I expected that he would have. Everyone else took it hard, as I expected that they would have.

It seems like just yesterday that I met him. He had moved into the office next door to mine, and I had been curious as to my new floor mate. His gruff demeanor and crude humor had not been immediately endearing, but they had grown on me, as he himself had. He had soon become a part of my life. He had soon become my best friend. He had soon become that part that I'm now convinced I could not live without.

And today…today I'm supposed to kill him. I can't do it. I can't do it today, I can't do it tomorrow, I can't do it ever. It's too soon. I haven't had enough time with him. I haven't known him long enough. I haven't loved him hard enough. I'm worried. I'm worried about what will happen to him after the morphine is pushed. I'm worried about what will happen to me after I empty that syringe. I will have killed my best friend.

It's what he wants. I know that. I would have given him anything, _anything_, that he wanted, that he needed even, but this is one thing I cannot give him. I'm not strong enough to do this for him. I'm too weak to be his best friend when he needs me the most. I'm too timid to push a syringe full of a medication that I've pushed into many unknown patients hundreds, if not thousands, of times before. But this is one syringe I just can't push. This is one patient that I love too much. This is one patient I just can't kill. I just can't do it.

I just can't do it.


	10. Dying

**Disclaimer:** I do not own anything related to House, M.D.

* * *

**October 31. "Dying"**

It's late. The jack-o-lanterns glow menacingly in the distance as great balls of orange light, leering at me as I pass them by. It's a bit cold to be out walking, but I am not alone. Small children in costumes and their parents scurry past me, shouting occasionally to one another. Goblins and witches run past me, bags overflowing with candy. I see Power Rangers and Disney characters, some ballerinas, and a few doctors, even. I smile at the innocence of children. The simplicity. I wish I could go back to that. I wish my life could be that simple.

I find myself wondering why they would want to dress up as members of a profession that is so difficult, so trying, so emotionally and physically draining. Surely they had to know the choices doctors had to make every day – what medicine to give people, what surgical instrument to use, what diagnosis to make. They had to realize that doctors live their lives in constant fear.

Or maybe that's just me.

I see their faces alight with joy and innocence as they dash from one house to the next. The children with the lab coats clearly don't realize everything that comes with being a doctor, but then again, how would they know? They're still struck by that illusion that everyone can be saved, that they could save everyone. I used to live for that illusion. I used to believe it was true. I wish I still could.

I realize that I'm nearing the hospital again. I had left nearly an hour ago, with the intention of going to my car and driving home for another sleepless night, but so far, the only thing I'd been able to do was wonder aimlessly away from the hospital through the neighborhoods nearby. I'm coming full circle now, seeing the lights of the hospital ambulance bay in the distance. I sigh and resign myself to the return. I am drawn to the hospital; I realize it now. Even when I leave, I don't really leave. I can't stop thinking about work. I can't stop thinking about patients. I can't stop thinking about House.

I can't stop thinking about House.

I haven't seen him, and yet he's all I can think about. I can't concentrate anymore. My life, my thoughts, my existence, it would seem, has been consumed by his presence. He is everywhere. I see his face everywhere I turn. I see his eyes haunting me when I close my own to go to sleep. I hear his voice in the silence of the night. I hear his pleas ringing in my ears. I hear the directions he gave me. I still remember what they were.

"_Take the syringe."_

"_Fill it with morphine."_

"_Focus, Cameron."_

But I can't focus. I can't focus on anything else but him. I can't distract myself long enough to forget the look on his face when I took that syringe. I can't distract myself long enough to forget the look on Wilson's face when he saw what I'd done. I can't distract myself long enough to convince myself not to care, not to try, not to love him.

I love him. He knows that, I think. Time has worked against me. I'm never going to be with him, but I'm still going to love him. I am so tired of running out of time. It doesn't seem fair. Then again, I'm not the one that's dying. At least I'm still alive.

I wish I had done it. I wish I had the courage to have done it. I wish Wilson hadn't stopped me. I know I would have hurt him, but he was going to be hurt no matter what. I just wish I had done it. House wanted – wants – to die. I shouldn't have denied him. It's his wish, the patient's last, dying wish, to die. I should have done it. He would have done it for me, if the roles had been reversed.

He would have done it for me.

I enter the hospital again and run my hands through my hair, wondering what I'm going to do now that I'm actually here. I think about walking to his room, to see him again, to tell him I'm sorry. I think I should apologize.

I think I should say good-bye.

As I'm walking to his room, I hear a strange noise from one of the exam rooms. I stop, listening hard. The door is ajar. I peek inside. What I see nearly breaks my heart.

It's Wilson, and he's crying. I've never seen him lose control like this before. He is hunched over, his shoulders sagging, and he is gripping onto the exam room table as though his life depended on it. As much as I want to help him, I feel as though I can't – I can't intrude. My eye catches the syringe on the table to his left, and next to it, the bag of morphine. Comprehension dawns and I know what's going to happen.

He's going to kill House.

No - He's supposed to kill House, but he can't. He told House that he would, but he can't do it. I can see it, see it in the way that he's crying, in the way that he's shaking uncontrollably, unable to stop, that he just can't do it. He's made a promise that he can't break, but one that he can't fulfill. I feel the tears pulling at my eyes. I want to help him. I want to help both of them.

I have to kill House.

I think I've known it all along, that this is the end. Unconsciously, I knew. I knew I would say good-bye tonight. I would see him one last time, I would tell him that I love him, and I would inject the syringe. It would be that simple.

Of course I know it's not that simple, it's never that simple. But I've come to accept it. I think I've known all along it would happen; I've resigned myself to this. I have to do it. I have to do it because Wilson can't. I have to do it because it's what House wants.

I have to do it because it's what's right.

I enter the dark exam room and shut the door behind me before turning on the light. I quickly wipe the tears from my eyes. I don't want to cry now. I walk slowly to the cupboard and take the extra package of morphine. I take a syringe from the box.

"_Take the syringe."_

I swallow the lump that's building in my throat, but my eyes are dry now. I take a moment to steady myself, and then break open the package of morphine.

"_Fill it with morphine."_

I fill the entire syringe. I swallow hard as I cap the syringe and then stick it in my lab coat pocket. I put the package back in the cabinet and turn out the light as I leave the room.

He's sitting up in bed, staring out the window. I approach him slowly, cautiously, not wanting to startle him. I'm struck by how much weaker, how much worse he looks, compared to when I last saw him. I know then that I'm doing the right thing.

He turns his ghostly face to me. "You came back," he murmurs.

I nod. "I had to say good-bye."

He looks at me for a moment with wide eyes, and then nods for me to come closer. I oblige, and as I do, I reach into my pocket and pull out the syringe. I show it to him.

He offers me a small, half smile and he leans back with closed eyes. I feel my heart pounding in my chest. This is it.

"Thank you," he whispers. He reaches up to touch the hand holding the syringe. I meet his eyes. "I'm proud of you."

I nod, feeling the tears beginning to fall down my face. He looks at me curiously, a hint of pity reflected in his blue eyes. "I love you," I whisper.

"Come all the way here to tell me that?" I open my mouth to respond, but he doesn't wait. He drops his hand and extends his arm. "I'm ready."

"I know," I tell him softly. I'm trying to steady myself. I swallow hard again. "Do you need to say -"

"No."

"Not even Wil -"

"He knows."

I meet his gaze one last time, asking him silently if he's sure. He nods and closes his eyes. I draw a deep breath and then stick the needle into his arm. With a small sob, I push and then release.

"I love you, too," he whispers.

And then he dies.

-END-

**Author's Notes:**

We've reached the end! Now I have a few people to thank that helped me get there along the way. First, thanks again to my wonderful beta reader, EverybodyLies17, for an excellent job well done. Second, thanks to my reviewers - Iamokota, who reviewed each chapter without fail, especially - for your words, whether you reviewed almost all the chapters, or even just one. Your words meant a lot to me, so I thank you for them.

That said, please review this last chapter and tell me your reaction to it. I know there are more of you reading than reviewing, or at least more of you getting the alerts (author alert or story alert) than are reviewing. You don't have to review each chapter, but since the piece is over, I would appreciate your thoughts and reactions to the story overall, or, if you prefer, just to this chapter.

In case anyone is interested, here is a playlist of the music that inspired one or more chapters of this story (idea from Iamokota): **How to Save a Life** (The Fray), **Stop and Stare **(OneRepublic), **I Giorni** (Ludovico Einaudi), **Untitled** (Simple Plan), **Shadow of the Day **(Linkin Park), **Remember** (Josh Groban), **Remember When It Rained** (Josh Groban),and **Passing Afternoon** (Iron and Wine). Maybe one of those songs is familiar to you from a certain House episode? (It should be!)

I think that's everything I wanted to say. Thanks again for reading!

-holadios


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